


I Didn't Mean To Say I Love You

by Benji_Deeds



Category: IT (2017) RPF, IT - Stephen King
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Flashbacks, M/M, Personal Favorite, Tags Are Hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 20:36:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20730383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Benji_Deeds/pseuds/Benji_Deeds
Summary: Richie Tozier just left Derry...and he already has an interview with the world wondering why he left so suddenly. He says too much, and realizes just how in love he had been. And that it's easier to be...out...with the truth.





	I Didn't Mean To Say I Love You

The fact that the weather was nice felt like an entire juxtaposition to Richie's mood as he dragged his luggage behind him out of the airport. He had to occasionally shake his head to remind himself that what just happened was, in fact, real. He had to pinch his arm to convince himself that he'd actually gotten out of that rotten, shitty house alive. 

And, God, he had to roll his eyes when he remembered the interview his manager had scheduled for him later that day. He had just enough time to take a shower and maybe a breath before he was to go on a talk show. Live. Richie had never done well with talking out of his ass, not professionally anyway. His lines in gigs were pre-written, and any other tv show he'd been on was pre-recorded. Something about going live without knowing what the fuck they would ask him turned his stomach more than the sloppy clown did. 

He didn't realize how screwed up and sick his face must've looked before his manager came rushing to him, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing at his face like...hah, like a hypochondriac. Richie had a type, and his life, a twisted sense of humor. He zoned back in when fingers were snapped in his face, a nervous voice asking him if he was feeling okay, that he'd been worried for his, "best client." Richie laughed it off, coolly saying that he'd just been partying too hard with some girls in Reno. After a few beats, he was let off the hook. Well, that one, at least. 

He pulled himself all the way up the stairs to his apartment, dumping his things in the hall as he sludged to the bathroom. Richie washed his face first, letting the water drip off the tip of his nose into the sink. Running a hand down his face, he tried not to look in the mirror if he could avoid it, not sure he wanted to see what he looked like after the time he just spent in Derry. The shower ran, causing him to bring himself back to reality once more. 'Jesus Christ, Tozier,' he reprimanded himself as he moved to stand under the water, 'Get yourself together, man.' He shook his head at himself, closing his eyes as he moved to take a step back, recoiling when his foot grazed the shower drain. It knocked the breath out of his lungs, and suddenly he was knocked over, trying to catch air again. He was acting stupid. So, so stupid. Freaking out over a shower drain that's hundreds and hundreds of miles away from that dead fucking clown. Clown. Spider. Lumberjack. Werewolf. Leper. Piece of absolute shit! He didn't care what IT was; he didn't want to think about the fucking thing!

"Woah, Rich. What the hell are you talking about?" That was his manager's voice from the other side of the door. Shit, had he really said all that outloud? What the fuck was wrong with him. Woah, don't open that can of worms.

With a poorly wrapped towel around his waist, Richie opened the door, grinning as though nothing had happened. "Saw a huge fucking-" he hated himself, oh, he hated himself, "-spider in there. Had to kill it. Is that potpourri? Smells like my friend's mom's feet. Blegh." He sometimes thanked God - or whoever was out there; for all he knew it could be a giant fucking turtle or something - for his knack at changing the topic so smoothly. Worked great for deflecting anything and everything. 

He got dressed quickly enough, wearing something he knew bordered the line his manager tried to make for him as professionalism and being a comedian that didn't give a fuck. Richie rubbed his hands together, "Let's go do some magic, baby!" On his way out, he combed his hands through his hair, letting out a slow breath, "Yeah...you got this, Trashmouth. You got this."

One escorted car ride and a rush through backstage later, he was swishing bourbon in his mouth with shaky hands and mumbling under his breath, "Fuck, I really don't got this." His heart was beating fast, sounding like footsteps in his ears. He was in Neibolt again, he was sure. He was beating against a door desperately, trying to save his separated friends. He was being dragged away as debris fell around him to the beat of his heart. Richie was two seconds away from throwing up and unfortunately the same two seconds from going onstage. Talk about bad publicity. He took that time to down his bourbon, clear his head, and find a good footing for when he was pushed on, his hands raised above his head, waving enthusiastically to the live audience.

He walked over to shake hands with the host - fuck, fuck, what was his name, Richie, you can't forget the host's name, fuck - grinning like he was happy to be there in the guest's seat. 

"Richie 'Trashmouth' Tozier, glad to have you here on the show," Mr. Host-Fuck-Does-It-Start-With-A-J? said to get the ball rolling, at which Richie did a sitting bow, making the gesture with his hand. "So glad you can make it, seeing as your pretty...pretty extreme, random vacation we heard about from your manager. You want to talk on that?" 

Nervous thoughts swam through his head as he took up time by adjusting his blazer. "Yeah, pssh, it was, uh, it was a pretty rushed thing. Got a call from a few old friends that, uh, another one of them had passed, so." He shook his head, "Yeah, funerals aren't the most fun vacation. Especially in Maine, sheesh." He tacked that on the end to make it seem like he was still lighthearted. No audience wants a gloomy show.

"So sorry to hear that," Mr. Talk-Show-Man said with just the right amount of fake sympathy, (or maybe Richie was just pissed enough to believe it was fake), "But you caught up with some old friends? How'd that go? Rattle around some memories?" 

Richie crossed one leg over the over, a habit that developed when he was told he wasn't allowed to bounce his leg anymore when performing, (that's all this was: a performance). "Yeah, yeah, definitely remembered some stuff I never would've thought about. Learned some," (don't curse on tv, Rich, don't curse on tv), "new stuff about...what a cliché, but about myself." 

"We're all on the edge of our seats here, Trashmouth," Mr. Seriously-What-The-Fuck-Is-His-Name urged him on, which Richie knew he'd just continue doing for the rest of their screentime, so...God, what the fuck was he about to get himself into. 

"Well, y'know, gotta say, it was a pretty bad trip overall. Got there when I heard the call that my friend passed, stayed there for a hot second, only to have another one pass in front of me." Richie struggled to keep his composure, trying his damnedest to smile through it. "And, I have to admit that I'm pretty angry with myself for not telling him something before that happened." Richie was gripping one of the armrests in a way he hoped was subtle, "When I was there, before he passed, I remembered all of the crap we did together as kids and-" he voice caught, oh fuck, "and it came back to me how much I loved the guy. He should've known that." Richie continued speaking, sputtering more like, because he knew he was running out of time and getting this out was suddenly the only thing that mattered, "I've known it for a while, but...b-but he was the first real person I loved, and it's pretty freaking appropriate that he's who caused me to say this right now." His hands were shaking, his heart beating, and he could feel his foot start to tap, "I like men. Not sure how it all works, but. But you're the first to hear it, what a cool audience experience, right? So...so cool." The room had gotten silent, so that Richie could hear the rumbling in his ears. Rumbling...Rumbling like the walls were collapsing or...shifting or...something big was moving.

Richie blinked his eyes open furiously, suddenly gasping for air. Suddenly back where he'd been moments...fuck, it didnt feel like it, but it was, he knew...moments before. He'd been caught in the deadlights, his vision filled with those images of that talk show, that fucking shower, that plane ride that nearly made him puke. He never left this place. And above him...just like in the vision..."Eddie." 

"Richie." 

The last words before the smaller man was thrown around by whatever the fuck it was that pierced through his stomach. Richie then understood how Eddie had felt before; paralyzed with the fear of seeing someone he loved so desperately in mortal danger. He couldn't so much as say his name another time. He could scream. He wanted out. He wanted to make it out of here with Eddie, and promised himself that if he did, he'd tell the man how much he fucking adored him. 

When he could bring himself to move, Richie raced after him, the others headed their way. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. That was all that was on his mind. Even as blood stained his vision from where it was smeared on his glasses, even as he ran despite every muscle screaming at him, even as he heard IT clawing at the rubble above them. Even as Eddie choked out some shitty, absolutely beautiful joke about fucking his mom. Even though they were in the sewers in the least hygienic states possible, Richie placed a hand on Eddie's cheek, apologizing when he hissed at the pain, and kissed him. He would never be able to say all the ways he felt about Eddie, he'd never be able to admit publicly that he likes men, and he'd never say outloud how much of a fake he was about having...any dates at all.

The kiss...the kiss said it all. "Don't go. Don't go, Eds, don't go."

"'Chee..." A softer one, from Eddie this time, just enough to graze his lips, "You know I hate it when you call me Eds." 

"No...No, no, no, no! Don't go. Don't you fucking go, Eddie. Eddie, you can't. Don't go, don't go-"

...

"Don't go. Don't go. Don't go!" Richie screamed as he was dragged out by Bill and Mike from the sewers, "Guys, we can still help him. We can still help him, please. Please, we can still help, I-"

...

That was all the parts he could remember as he finished dragging the pocket knife through the wood of the bridge. R + E. He really had loved the wheezy bastard for that long, huh? He took a photo, setting it as his home screen as he walked to his car. Hah. A notif from his manager about going on a talk show. All the same as his vision. Except this time, Richie knew exactly what he was going to say beforehand...Though the bourbon still wasn't a bad idea.


End file.
